The Celtic Warrior and a McMahon Walk into a Bar
by kgregs
Summary: One-shot. Hannah McMahon only agrees to go on a date with Sheamus so that her father will stop pestering her about it. She's sure the evening will be a total waste of her time; but between an expensive bottle of wine and hustling 900 dollars from a Cuban could-be drug lord, they wind up having a first date they'll never forget. Sheamus/OC. Prequel to "Turn On the Lights."


_This one-shot is a prequel to my multi-chapter fic "Turn On the Lights" - you may recall in the third chapter of TotL it's revealed that Triple H and Vince tried to set Hannah up with Sheamus the previous year. However, it's not necessary to read TotL to before this, and there aren't any spoilers. So if you've found this independent of TotL, please read and review!_

_Disclaimer: I own nothing but Hannah McMahon and my plot._

_A/N: This fic has been edited._

**The Celtic Warrior and a McMahon Walk into a Bar**

_Friday, March 30, 2012  
><em>_InterContinental Miami hotel  
><em>_Miami, Florida_

Hannah was more anxious than a whore in church. Why in hell had she agreed to go on this date again? Oh, that's right: So that her father would quit _pestering_ her about it. Once Vincent Kennedy McMahon set his mind on something he _would not quit_ until he got his way; and unfortunately for Hannah, his mind was currently set on shacking her up with none other than the soon-to-be World Heavyweight Champion, Sheamus.

_Ugh_.

Nothing against Sheamus, but he wasn't really Hannah's type. Hannah liked charismatic bad boys with dark hair and a five o'clock shadow—Sheamus was a brawling Irishman with bright orange hair and skin the color of snow. If Hannah were being perfectly honest, she'd rather go on a date with _literally anyone else_ in the WWE tonight.

But maybe she wouldn't go on any date at all tonight. Her eyes darted to the clock on her hotel room's nightstand; it read 7:58 p.m., and Sheamus had said he would pick her up at 8. As much as she didn't want to do this, Hannah would be furious if he stood her up.

_Knock-knock-knock._

"Oh shit."

She jumped up and looked herself over one last time. Every strand of her long dark waves was perfectly in place and her smoky bronze makeup was immaculately done. Her tan legs looked a mile long in the four-and-half inch gold strappy heels she wore, and the azure color of her long sleeved mini-dress made her blue eyes pop. Hannah had to hand it to herself: She looked _good_.

With one final calming breath she grabbed her gold clutch and opened the door. Her date's eyes widened when he caught sight of her.

"Hannah!" Sheamus—er, _Stephen_—scanned her over from head to toe. "Wow. You look unbelievable."

Hannah flushed as he greeted her with a polite peck on the cheek. "Oh, thanks. You clean up pretty well, yourself." Really, he did. He looked quite handsome in the dark wash jeans, black button-up, and dark gray vest he wore.

But she still didn't want to go on this date.

"So," Stephen started, "shall we?"

Hannah gave him a winning smile. _No, I'd rather stay here and eat French fries and cookies, thanks. By myself._ "Of course."

* * *

><p>Stephen took Hannah to the Capital Grille in downtown Miami. She had been there many a time before—not in Miami, but back home in Stamford. It was a favorite restaurant of celebrities, socialites, and the financially well to do, and while the food was fantastic Hannah also thought it was a bit <em>stuffy<em>. She had expected Stephen to take her somewhere with a bit more flair, especially for a first date.

"Did I pick tha wrong restaurant?"

Hannah looked up at him from her menu. "What? No!" she jumped. _Why'd he ask that? Was I making a face?_ "I actually come here all the time. Well, not _here_, but you know. It just wasn't what I was expecting."

"What were ya expecting? A pub?"

He was grinning. It was a joke—because he was Irish. Hannah smiled to herself. "I would have been perfectly fine with a pub," she honestly answered. "Although that's probably the last place you would've wanted to go, right?"

"Not if it was a good authentic Irish one," he said. "But those are hard ta come by."

"Well, you didn't pick the wrong restaurant," she reassured him. "It's nice that we have this area all to ourselves."

That was actually _very_ nice. The hostess had seated them in a private dining space overlooking the main dining room, and Hannah certainly appreciated the seclusion. There was bound to be _someone_ in the restaurant who recognized Stephen; after all, WrestleMania XXVIII was less than 48 hours away, and thousands of WWE fans had descended on Miami from all corners of the globe. At least this way no one would interrupt and make this already awkward date even _more_ awkward.

"Yeah, I t'ought it would be a good idea," Stephen agreed. "You know, wit' all tha fans being around and everything."

"Wait," Hannah realized. "_You_ did this?"

"Well, yeah. Don't seem so surprised," he smirked. "I may be tha Celtic Warrior, but I know how ta treat a woman."

Hannah couldn't stifle her laugh. Maybe she hadn't given Stephen enough credit, after all.

The waiter arrived to take their order. Hannah got the dry aged sirloin steak, Stephen the double cut lamb rib chops, and they decided to get an order of the Parmesan truffle fries to share. Oh, and a bottle of cabernet sauvignon. Hannah would need a few glasses of _that_.

But until the wine arrived they were on their own to make conversation, and Hannah was drawing a blank. She was laughably out of practice at this. This was the first date she had been on in years, and she didn't even want to be on it.

"So—"

"I—"

They spoke up at exactly the same moment. Hannah flushed. "Go ahead."

"No, no," Stephen insisted. "Ladies first."

"Well," Hannah started again, "I was just gonna say that it's been a while since I've been on a date. So I apologize ahead of time for being completely awkward."

Hannah internally rolled her eyes. That statement itself was completely awkward, but Stephen didn't seem to mind. In fact, he seemed rather intrigued by it. "I find that hard ta believe."

"What?"

"That ya haven't been on a date in a while."

"Oh." Hannah smiled coyly down at her lap. "Really, I haven't. I don't really go on dates, to be honest. Every relationship I've ever had has just sort of… happened." As ridiculous as that sounded, it was 100% true. Hannah had never taken the sit-down interview, pick-and-choose screening process approach to dating; she just didn't have _time_ for it, and she didn't have any desire for it, either. If she liked a guy she would hang out with him, and if it clicked, it clicked. If it didn't, it didn't. Why did dating have to be more complicated than that?

Stephen clasped his hands in front of him, his elbows propped on the table. "I see. So I guess I'm already at a disadvantage then, considerin' nothin's just _happened_ between us."

There was a glimmer of amusement in his eye, but he had put Hannah between a rock and a hard place. What was she supposed to say to that? She fumbled to find the right words. "Well no, I mean just because nothing's happened—"

"Hannah, it's all right," Stephen interrupted. "I know Vince put ya up ta this, so don't worry about hurting my feelings. Ta be perfectly honest, I only agreed because I was afraid he'd take away my World Heavyweight Title match if I didn't."

Hannah stared back at Stephen in complete and utter shock. He didn't really want to be on this date either? Thank. God.

But Stephen must have misread the look on her face, because he quickly launched into a nervous retraction. "I mean obviously that wasn't the _only_ reason I agreed. Yer Hannah McMahon an' yer absolutely gorgeous an' I would be stupid not ta take ya out… an' I'm just gonna shut up before I dig this hole any deeper."

For the first time all night, Hannah gave a genuine smile. "No really, it's fine," she said, and it was. "Trust me, I'm relieved you said something about the fact that this _wasn't_ our idea."

The waiter returned with their bottle of wine, and not a moment too soon. He poured them both a glass, and as he walked away Hannah held hers up in toast. "Well, here's to awkward dates."

"Cheers," Stephen agreed, and they drank.

* * *

><p>Hannah wasn't sure at what point in the evening the date had devolved from a classy dinner at a Zagat-rated restaurant to a drunken affair at a hole-in-the-wall cantina, but that's exactly what had happened. It probably had something to do with the wine—that expensive stuff was <em>potent<em>.

"Wait." Stephen was nearly doubled over the pool table laughing. He wasn't nearly as buzzed as Hannah—he was a 6-foot-4, 267-pound Irishman, after all—but he was extremely entertained by what she had just told him. "So at SummerSlam 2003 you put Orajel on Randy Orton's cigarettes an' it made his lips go numb?"

"Yeah," Hannah nodded as she started to laugh herself. "He had to do a live backstage segment with numb lips. Oh my God, he was _so_ fucking pissed."

"_Why?_" Stephen was still laughing. "I mean why did ya do that to 'im?"

"Because he was an egotistical dickwad! But I was also 17, so I didn't know any better."

"Did ya get in trouble?"

Hannah winced as she took a sip of her margarita. "Oh yeah. My dad didn't let me go to any shows for a long time after that, and he pretty much grounded me until my 18th birthday. But everyone else thought it was hilarious. Well, you know—everyone except Randy."

Stephen sent her an impish smirk. "You had a crush on 'im, didn't ya?"

Hannah's eyes widened. "On who? _Randal?_ No!"

"Oh come on," he dubiously returned. "You were a 17-year-old girl an' ya didn't have a crush on Randy Orton?"

"Did _you_ have a crush on Randy Orton when you were a 17-year-old-girl, Stephen?"

Stephen's expression went stony. Hannah flashed him a toothy grin. "Just fer that, I'm gonna sink the seven," he said.

"But the seven is my _favorite!_" she proclaimed in mock devastation—but just as he promised, Stephen sunk it in the bottom left corner pocket. Hannah scowled at the cocky smirk he sent her. She was going to have to catch up, and soon; he was kicking her ass.

But before Stephen could set up his next shot their waitress interrupted. She had a full shot glass in her hand. "The gentleman in the gray suit over there bought you this," she said to Hannah, and she set the drink down and walked away.

Hannah was at a loss for words. Some random man had bought her a drink? Did he have a death wish? It was pretty obvious that she was here with Stephen, and he most definitely was _not_ the sort of person any _smart_ man would dare to cross. She looked to where the waitress had indicated, wondering who could have been so dumb, and found a tall Latino man smirking at her from the bar. His black hair was slicked back and greasy, his suit was shiny and gaudy, and his crisp white shirt was unbuttoned nearly halfway down his chest. Hannah arched an unimpressed brow. So he wasn't dumb, per se. He was just cocky.

Stephen had spotted the culprit, as well—and he reacted just as Hannah expected. "Is this bastard really tryin' ta steal my date?"

"You don't have anything to worry about," she flatly returned; but Stephen snatched up the shot. "What're you doing?"

"I'm takin' it myself," he declared. Hannah grinned—she could play this game, too. She sidled up to Stephen, wrapped her arm around his waist, and placed a lingering kiss on his cheek as he took the shot. To add insult to injury, Stephen raised the glass in thanks as he glared over at Mr. Shiny Suit. That would show him to send another man's date a drink.

"Ugh," he cringed as the alcohol went down, turning away so that Mr. Shiny Suit wouldn't see. "Tequila."

Hannah smirked at him. "Can't handle it?"

"Trust me, Hannah," he said with a roguish look at her, "I can handle anything."

Hannah felt herself start to blush. She hadn't expected Stephen to be so suggestive, and she _definitely_ hadn't expected to enjoy it so much.

They returned their attention to their game of pool, and Stephen made embarrassingly quick work of Hannah. She adamantly blamed the loss on her attire: It was impossible to bend over in her dress without flashing her barely there underwear to the entire bar, so she had to squat, which made shooting rather awkward. Stephen grinned and offered to stand behind her this round, but Hannah rolled her eyes and gave him a shove.

But as Stephen racked up the second game they were interrupted _again_. And this time it was Mr. Shiny Suit himself.

He marched right up to Stephen and stared him down with hard, dark eyes. He was a good four inches shorter and many pounds of muscle smaller than the Irishman, but that didn't seem to make any difference to him. His machismo had been insulted, and he had come to even the score. "Do you think that was cute, what you did there, cabrón?"

Stephen's lip curled as he stared down his nose in disdain. Hannah could tell he wasn't in the least bit intimidated by this Alberto Del Rio wannabe. Why would he be? He was a two-time WWE Champion, for crying out loud. "Yeah, fella, I do."

Hannah stiffened. He had dropped a _fella_. If Mr. Shiny Suit didn't watch himself, he'd be getting Sheamus instead of Stephen.

But, whoever this guy was, he clearly didn't recognize the Celtic Warrior. That, or he just didn't care. "Okay," he started. Hannah was trying to place his accent. Was it Cuban? They _were_ in Miami. "Well since you want to go and steal my money, how about I steal yours? What do you say we play a game of pool? Whatever you put down, I'll double it—winner takes all."

Hannah was rooted to her spot; she had absolutely no desire to get in the middle of this testosterone-fueled showdown. She knew Stephen well enough—hell, she knew _wrestlers_ well enough—to know that nothing she could say would dissuade him from accepting the challenge. She would just have to ride this one out, whether she liked it or not.

But honestly, she was rather intrigued to see what would happen.

"You got yerself a deal," Stephen agreed. "I have $300 in my wallet, so with yer generous contribution that brings tha total to 900. I hope ya don't have ta pawn that nice gold chain after I'm through wit' you."

Mr. Shiny Suit grit his teeth. Hannah took a seat. _We really shouldn't have drank that whole bottle of wine…_

* * *

><p>The wagered game of pool had turned out to be far more competitive than anyone anticipated. Stephen was stripes and Mr. Shiny Suit was solids—and also quite the pool shark. No wonder he had made such a cocky bet: He had the skill to back it up.<p>

Stephen had taken the table first, getting the 10-ball in off the break and then sinking the 14 and 9 in succession. But when he failed to get the 15 in the left side pocket, Mr. Shiny Suit had come in and nearly cleaned house. He sunk the 4, and then the 2, and then the 5, and then the 3—but he scratched when he pocketed the 1 on a tricky shot. It was a huge break for Stephen, and he sunk the 13 and 11 thanks to the screw-up; but he missed the 12. Now Mr. Shiny Suit was up again, and after easily sinking the 7 only the 6 and 8 remained. They were positioned right next to each other, with the 8-ball sitting precariously on the edge of the right side pocket.

Hannah was sweating just watching the game. Mr. Shiny Suit had a clear path to land the 6 in the top right corner pocket, but even the slightest miscue could accidentally sink the 8-ball, thus losing the game. But if he _did_ cleanly make the shot, the $900 jackpot would be his for the taking.

Hannah glanced at Stephen. His massive arms were crossed over his chest, and the hardened look on his face betrayed a belief that he was about to lose.

_Not if I can help it, _Hannah thought_. _It was time for her to use her _assets_ to her date's advantage.

She spotted a barstool that was conveniently located right within Mr. Shiny Suit's critical line of sight. Hannah gingerly climbed up onto the seat. Her long, smooth legs caught his attention; she gave him a suggestive grin as she slid her drink's straw between her lips. For a beat, she had him—but then he tore his eyes away and refocused on the game.

Luckily, that was exactly what Hannah wanted him to do.

Mr. Shiny Suit steadied himself, set up the shot, and pulled back his cue stick—and just before he hit the cue ball, Hannah uncrossed her legs and re-crossed them on the other side. The distraction worked just as she had hoped: Mr. Shiny Suit miscued, and the 8-ball went right into the side pocket.

"Well, fella, looks like ya've lost!" Stephen proclaimed with a massive grin. He quickly claimed the $900, which had been sitting under a beer glass on a table in neutral territory. "Thanks for the cash!"

"NO!" a sudden outburst from Mr. Shiny Suit halted Stephen in his tracks. He was _enraged_. He slammed his cue against the side of the table so hard that it was a wonder it didn't snap in two—and then he made a beeline for Hannah. She jumped out of her seat and scrambled away. Stephen moved in front of her, shielding her from the sore loser.

"_No._" Mr. Shiny Suit pointed a firm finger in Stephen's face. "_You_ didn't win anything! Your _putita_ cheated!"

Hannah's jaw dropped. She knew enough Spanish to know what he had just called her, and it wasn't very nice at all. So she threw her drink in his face.

For a second, everything ground to a halt. Hannah, Stephen, and Mr. Shiny Suit were all in near-catatonic shock. But then Mr. Shiny Suit snapped.

"You little," he grit and launched toward Hannah, but Stephen shoved him violently backward. He recovered and threw a big right fist, but not quick enough. Stephen dodged out of the way, and Mr. Shiny Suit clocked one of his buddies trying to get in on the action instead. That was Hannah and Stephen's cue to make a break for it.

"Time to go!" Hannah shouted. Stephen didn't argue; they tore outside, and jumped into the first cab they spotted. "The InterContinental Miami!" Hannah ordered, and the driver took off just as Mr. Shiny Suit burst out of the bar, cursing insults in Spanish. He managed to grab ahold of the taxi's door handle, but Stephen locked it just in time, and the cabbie sped off.

Hannah watched Mr. Shiny Suit fade into the distance out the back window. _Thank God_ they had a green light. Once she was certain they were in the clear, she sunk down into the backseat. Her heart was hammering through her chest—but there was a tiny grin on her lips.

This was, without a shadow of a doubt, the most exciting first date of her life.

* * *

><p>Whether it was the alcohol, the adrenaline, or a combination of both, once Hannah and Stephen arrived back at the hotel they <em>could not<em> _stop_ laughing about everything that had just happened.

"I can't believe you tossed yer drink in 'is face!" Stephen proclaimed. "I mean I don't blame ya, but I can't believe ya did it."

"I can't believe you won $900!" Hannah returned. "And from someone who looked like he _might_ have been a Cuban drug lord, no less."

"Hey, it wasn't just me. You saved my arse," Stephen admitted. "Which you didn't have ta do, by tha way."

Hannah sent him a look over her shoulder. "Don't you know my last name, Stephen? I didn't want to be on the losing team."

"Well, I owe you half of tha winnings." He pulled the wad of bills from his pants pocket and counted out $450 exactly. Hannah accepted the payout with a wide grin.

"Why, thank you," she started—but then her eyes widened. "We ran out without paying our tab."

"Yeah, an' my car is still parked in that garage back at tha restaurant," Stephen added.

Hannah couldn't help it; she burst out in laughter. "Oh my God, I forgot all about your car. I shouldn't laugh. I'm sorry."

Stephen waved her off. He was grinning. "It's fine; I had a good time. I'll get it tomorrow."

"I had a good time, too," Hannah added. Truly, she had. It may have gotten off to an awkward start, but Stephen had turned out to be a pretty fun date, after all.

But all of a sudden they were back at Hannah's hotel room, and the awkward tension made a full-on comeback.

They stood in silence in front of her door. Hannah literally had no idea what to do. _Should I kiss him? But that would make him think I want another date. _Do_ I want another date? Shit, I don't even know._

"This is the awkward part," Stephen spoke up. Hannah cracked a smile; thank God he had a sense of humor. "I know I stuck my foot in my mout' earlier, but I really am glad we went out."

He moved closer as he spoke. Hannah stayed right where she was. "I'm glad you stuck your foot in your mouth," she said. Stephen leaned in closer. "It broke the ice."

Stephen smirked, but he didn't say a word. Instead, he kissed her.

And Hannah didn't feel anything.

Well, she felt Stephen's lips on hers, and his hand on her back, and his muscles tense underneath her touch. But there was no passion, no chemistry, no imaginary fireworks going off the in the background. It was _dull_.

They broke apart. Hannah could tell that Stephen had felt it too. "It" being "nothing." Simultaneously, they broke down laughing.

"Well," Hannah managed to say, "I think we might make better drinking buddies than we do a couple."

Stephen nodded in agreement. "Yeah, I think yer right. But hey, if ya ever want ta help me hustle anot'er game of pool I'll give ya a call."

Hannah grinned. "Absolutely."

Stephen leaned in again, this time to give her a hug. "Goodnight, Hannah."

"Goodnight," Hannah returned. Tonight hadn't been a total bust, after all.

_But I am _never_ letting my dad set me up again._


End file.
